I Do Not Cry in Pain
by Anonymous by Preference
Summary: Based off Leroux's novel. One-shot. The lid on the organ falls, and she accidentally crushed his hand.


**I had this random idea that's turned into a one-shot. If anybody wants to take this idea, and make it into a whole fanfic of their own, take my idea. I just thought this sounded cute. I don't own any of it. Why is it my idea? Review if you like it:)**

**Based off the unmasking scene of Leroux's book:**

"Show me your face, Erik!" I declared, the door bouncing off the wall beside me. "Show me your face without fear. And if ever again, I should shiver when looking upon your face, it is because I am thinking of your genius."

I know it hardly sounded convincing. Surely, he did not. He sat motionless, without turning towards me or without any reply. Was it for nothing? Does what I say mean so little? Having just witnessed a scene of fiery temper, I sat stunned on the floor, staring at his discarded mask for many long minutes. His organ blaring throughout the house. I need to start thinking of a way out, a way back to the surface. But I must be in my own mind, commanding my own senses. A moment ago, I intended to come in here and taunt him. And here, he sat peacefully almost, unwilling to be disturbed. . . And I can't say anything to make him believe me!

"D-don't you understand?" I trembled. "I want to see your face. It no longer matters - well, it never did matter. I've admired your voice without your face, for some time. Is there anything I might say to make you believe. . . Erik! Look at me!"

My skirts rustled at my heels as I entered the room. Cowardly, his face angled slightly so that I wouldn't be given the least satisfaction. Only one hand, a slender and abnormally large thing, hovered soundlessly over an octave in the lower middle.

"You think you're the only one down here?" I snarled. "You think you can turn your face from me after a display like that! You force me to look at your face, but I can't force you to look at mine!"

Just as the sentence had left my lips, and an impulsive fist struck against the bottom row, I seemed to have missed and struck against the cover. And down it came. There was this terrible reverberation of notes, forcefully played as his fingers were crushed. My gasp, one of horror, was one of instant sympathy.

"Oh dear, oh - I am so sorry. . ." Limply, his hand recoiled out from underneath the lid so that it slammed shut. A long, red mark stretching the length of his hand. "I. . . Erik, I didn't mean it. Does it hurt?" I don't understand. He could've easily escaped the lid; the man moved faster than a striking snake. "Can I. . . Well, can I do anything? At least, look at it?"

To look at his hands was second to looking directly into his face. These long limbs reminded me of to whom they belonged. Unnatural and gaunt and pale. And every touch or brush with it sent a chill through me. Poor man. This red welt began to react to the impact. By the gentle pressure of my own thumb, it was already beginning to swell. Have I broken his hand? No! I couldn't have! How could he possibly. . . He may be human, but he's strong, too strong to be broken. One glance up, I saw the real damage in his features. Hot tears bathed the jagged, swollen surface. Without a nose, the sniffling sounded more like a whistle. How terrible. I was terrible!

"D-does it hurt?" I stammered. Whether he felt pain or not, my captor wouldn't tell me. Was he my captor? Or is it me? Am I his, I wonder now. I thought by the time I left and returned from the kitchen, with ice wrapped in a cloth, that he'd have the time to compose himself some. Did it hurt so terribly? He began to tremble as I held his hand again, pressing against the top middle of his hand, and a little on the wrist. Why doesn't he speak, tell me if I'm doing any wrong? I know very little about injuries and treatment. Papa knew more than enough for the both of us. And there was always someone around to take care of these things. This was like handling a child.

"Please, Erik," I pleaded, almost breaking in a whimper. "I didn't mean it. Forgive me. Does it still hurt? If you want me to do anything for it-"

"Enough, please! Enough!" he cried out, with heaving lungs. "My angel, caring for her poor Erik this way. . . It's no more than I deserve."

"Does it hurt? Erik. . . P-please, I wish you wouldn't cry. . ."

"I am used to pain. I do not cry in pain, my love. It's this." His uninjured fingers crept and fearfully caressed my own. They mindlessly traced the spaces in between my fingers, curving round my fingertips. "Oh, Christine. . ."

"Have I broken your hand? It looks bad, Erik. I'm so sorry."

"You needn't be sorry. Erik behaved monstrously," he nodded, beginning to recover. "He should never have laid a hand upon you."

"Well, I shouldn't have strayed a hand near your mask in the first place," I said, with a sniffle myself. "Oh dear, I believe you do me more justice than I deserve, Erik. You call yourself a monster. . ."

"Blasphemy, my love," he denied. "No. Not you."

"I wanted to hurt you. I came in here. . . to. . . Well, I got what I wanted, didn't I? I never meant to hurt in this way. Not that I - Never mind."

"You're not cruel, if that's what you worry that Erik thinks."

For the third time, she looked into his face, focusing on his eyes. The blaze had been put out; only an ember cast a faint glow. Candlelight accentuate the fog and rain hanging low on his bottom eyelids. With short gold eyelashes, there was little he could do to keep back the floodgates. Christine watched in silence, almost fascinated with these silent tributes of agony. In his embarrassment, he refused to bring his eyes straight with hers.

"I won't ever hurt you again," I promised. "Never, if you'll never hurt me."

"I did, didn't I?" he sighed. The left hand circled round behind my head, faintly grazing over the curls in back. At first, I couldn't help the flinch. It was excruciating, to be held by the hair and practically treated like a rag doll. But it wasn't him. It was a product of this world, everything he learned from the cruelty and the darkness of such life. Whatever it was, whatever things he hadn't told me yet, I could just sense it.

"Do you have any gauze?" I cleared my throat.

"Gauze?"

"Yes, to wrap your hand?"

In timid little mumbles, he told me where to find his medical supplies. I rummaged several stacked boxes in the living room. Unlike the many heavier loads, this contained very little in the way of supplies: some gauze, alcohol, some unmarked bottle I guessed to be an anesthetic, ipecac, and a dull pair of scissors. Just as I would've suspected. He doesn't take great care of his health. The claim he'd just made no more than half an hour ago, needing very little in sustenance, is truly unbelievable. He does need, but he makes little effort. What does he eat? How often? How does he even stock his pantry without going out? Perhaps, that's it. What if he were to injure himself, one way or another, or fall ill? Who would take care of him; I wouldn't trust him to do any good for himself. . .

Remembering my task, I cut the necessary length. Erik emerged from his room with the organ, but didn't dare advance any closer than the divan by the hearth. A curious glint flickered in those gold eyes, as innocent as any child's eyes. What would I be feeling? Surely, he's angry with me. In taking his hand in my lap and wrapping it, nothing about his demeanor indicate any resentment beneath the surface. A little tremor stirred in the injured hand, but nothing too severe. It'll be bruised.

"You're. . . too good to your poor, unhappy Erik, Christine."

"I'm only doing what I should. At least I hope I'm doing this right," I stammered. When he was gentle, these frozen hands and fingers didn't repulse. From one minute to the next, I'd hated and then suddenly become endeared to these hands. The poor boy, whose mother wouldn't love him or even pretend, for his own sake. I could pretend to love him too. But how long could it last?

"You are, my dear," he sniffled.

"Is it broken?"

"I don't believe so." To prove it, he flexed his wrist slightly, only slightly. His sunken cheeks wrinkled in a wince.

"I am sorry." Once again, I cannot help myself. "And to your writing hand."

"Ah yes," he nodded. Then added, almost sarcastically: "Whatever will I do?"

"Would you care for me to sing, and then we might forget?"

"Well, that would be a bit awkward. For Erik could not play on this hand either. How would you sing?"

"Do I need music?" Half my lip twitched, in a sort of smile. "You need no music."

"No. . . You do not," he agreed. Responding to my expression, a shy one of his own peaked, a more sad one. "You are music itself."

Could I pretend? How long could I pretend? Dare I say, maybe it wouldn't be pretend. Maybe. . . it's not.

"I would sing if it'd make you happy," I offered. "But not if you cry."

Maybe some could do it. Maybe some are good at it too, but I cannot show love and feel nothing. I can't look at his tearstained face without being moved myself. A hand reached up and stroked several of those sorrowful things away. Couldn't tell if they were despair or joy. It didn't escape his notice, how I still held his bruised hand. Running my fingers between his, I obliged him with my promise. One of my father's Breton songs came to mind immediately. By the glaze of his eyes, it was like a man dying of thirst tasted a drop of water.

Perhaps it wasn't that cruel, or stupid of me. I regret the pain, but I can't say I regret now what it led to: realization. I won't say it was that moment, or that day, but it was the beginning of my actually loving him.


End file.
